


Everything in Paris is gay. -Dubliners, James Joyce

by orphan_account



Series: 101 Quotes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Paris - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2205330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock in Paris. Because John is 'NOT GAY'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything in Paris is gay. -Dubliners, James Joyce

**Author's Note:**

> err, if you like it, leave kudos if you want. :)
> 
> If you read this and also happen to work in entertainment (yes, Graham Norton, I AM looking at you!), please, be so kind and do NOT use my work. I repeat, I do NOT give my consent for you to use this!  
> Also, if you are, by some weird coincidence, Moffat/Gatiss/Famous, do not read whatever I write. If you read this...close the page. Now. It's not too late yet. Because my writing is horrible and you will hate me. And yourself for reading.  
> Be kind, and do not share my work with cast or crew.

Paris is quite nice, John reckons. Like, it's really not bad, if it weren't for one fact. One little thing that pisses him off, kind of. 

Everything about Paris is gay. Everything. The young and obnoxiously loud french men that whistle to whoever walks past them, be it male or female. The language, of course. He has never, ever heard a language that screams homosexual as much as French does. And then there's the fact that people seem to think Sherlock and him are a couple. Which he is used to by now, only here, it's worse. It's way worse. Because British people have something they call dignity and distance. They don't get their abnormally big nose into your business. They talk, of course, but that happens mainly behind your back. Not in front of you. But ever since Sherlock and he left the hotel this morning, various people have been walking up to them. Old women with little dogs that resemble saugages instead of canine like creatures, young couples with engagement rings still shining and middle-aged men with umbrellas carrying the inscription _Merde, Il Pleut_. They all paused and stared, and then they made it worse by walking up to them. Commenting on the beautiful couple and asking if this is their honeymoon. Which it is not. Because they're not, like, really not dating. 

Sherlock is not his boyfriend. He's just a friend. And he's not a boy, he's a man. He's a _manfriend._  Nothing more. They're not dating. Because John is straight. Absolutely and doubtlessly straight. 

It's just, okay, he has to admit this to himself; although he would never say it out loud. Sherlock is kind of beautiful. Not in the usual way, no, he's not pretty.  He just has this way of showing off the harsh features that make up his face and accentuating them with those fluffy curls and even fluffier scarves. He's a stylish young bloke, and yes, he's not ugly. He has nice eyes. They have this weird way of changing colour sometimes. And John has read this can happen to shizophrenic patients, and that's mainly the reason why he even noticed it in the first place. Sometimes they're greenishblueopalturquoise. Foxfire and open seas. Sometimes they're this dark blue, summer rain and ocean breeze. And yes, Sherlock also has a nice mouth. A kissable mouth. Not that he wants to kiss Sherlock, no, but everyone who would have the honour of kissing Sherlock Holmes should consider him or herself lucky. He has full, soft rose lips that make his skin seem even more pale. And yes, it's nice to look at. 

And Paris suits him. Paris is the city of light and Sherlock's the sparkle. The little lantern that lights up Paris late at night, the holiday lights that decorate the trees alongside the Avenue de la Grande Armée and the little flicker of candles placed on tables in the unnumerable restaurants. 

And right now, while Sherlock is busy investigating something of some sorts, John catches himself staring. Again. But nobody can't blame him, honestly. It's raining, and the rain makes Sherlock shine in a weird way the London rain does not seem to be capable of. It's like he's glowing from the inside, capturing every sparkle and every little light, the reflection of the sun and the sparkly play of light in the puddles on the shiny pavement. Paris changes Sherlock, it turns him into this scintillating piece of art. Into this brilliant play of light and shadows. Radiating. Blazing. [  
](http://www.dict.cc/deutsch-englisch/funkelnd.html)

"You're staring at me," Sherlock remarks, eyebrows raised. They reach the curls that lay down on his forehead, slick with rain. The droplets that rinse down his cheeck are full of unspoken promises, and they awake something deep inside of John Watson. He wants to retrace them with his mouth. Right now. But that's not a possibility, honestly. 

"Why are you staring at me?" Sherlock asks, impatience colouring his voice. And there's something else, and no, yes, it's definitely there. Or maybe it's John's imagination running wild. His own feelings manifesting in Sherlock's voice. Because it sounds like hope. Tension. 

"I'm not staring at you," he answers, weakly. 

Sherlock stays silent after that. 

- 

Yes, John should really overthink his sexuality, he realises. Because he always thought he wasn't gay, but waking up after having a very, well, rather explicit dream involving your best manfriend, it's only normal to really reconsider everything you've ever said considering sexuality.

Maybe Paris is rubbing off on him. 

Maybe it just made everything clear. 

"Are you awake?" he asks, eyes looking at nothing in particular. 

"Yes," Sherlock answers, and it sounds distant. John can hear he's not in his bed, he's on the balcony. 

He stands up, hands tugging at his clothes, before he walks out onto the balcony. It's cold outside, the cold breeze sending shivers down his spine. 

And yes, Paris might be gay, but fuck, it is beautiful. 

The view they have from the balcony is breathtaking, thousands of buildings and streets and people all in front of them. The little spots of light that indicate lighters igniting white menthol cigarettes held in slender fingers, the distant smell of expensive perfume and even more expensive food, mixing together into a blend John can only describe as  _Paris._

"It's beautiful," he whispers, and he can see Sherlock nodding. 

He leans closer, unconsciously, until their shoulders brush. Sherlock feels so warm, so blazing hot. And yes, of course, how could he ever expect him not to. Because Sherlock is the light that illuminates Paris, Sherlock is the glitter and the stardust and the fire. 

He turns around to face Sherlock, and god, they're so close. He can feel Sherlock's breath on his face, a warm steady gush of air that makes his lips tingle. He wants to lean in, he wants to capture that light and that fizzling spark and drink it all in. He wants to taste Paris on Sherlock's tongue. 

And he does. He leans in, trying not to think about this going wrong. 

It tingles, tickles. Sherlock's lips are fizzling against his own, bubbles of expensive french champagne exploding against his lips. Sweetness and softness and it feels like so much.

Because yes, everything in Paris is gay. And maybe, just maybe, John is gay as well. 


End file.
